Bendy enjoyed his new job as receptionist for the spaceship that Dr. I.C. Yourinsides and Capt. Spocari Nemoy and others worked in. The latter passed through every morning on his way down to Wallytown and the surface, and also passed by around 6:00, 6:30 in the evening when he returned. Bendy had only seen Dr. I.C. once so far — no real need for her to descend to this lowest deck (with the highest number, though: 15) since she is still unable to go groundside because of the continuing effects of the New Island radiation, even though they are no longer that near New Island. Fisher or Fishers Island is their home now. Their New Home. As stated previously, Spocari’s saving grace in this respect is his not-red-but-green blood.
From his switchboard console, Bendy had access to *some* of the ship’s information and history. It was that Bottle Mound in Alabama which made all this possible — and necessary. The two dead Greys at *Wallytown’s* mound (of similar height — a doppleganger mound, in effect) are not really dead, nor Greys. Hector and Lewis, and also likewise deceased Gerry slumping against an interior wall, didn’t really exist. Something else was going on. That’s why they haven’t been buried. They are merely “signs”.
Former receptionist Willard Picard had just moved to Chicago in the Real World to work at a newspaper, father Justin’s dream of the young man eventually succeeding him as ship’s Chief Communication Officer be damned. Thus the reason the post was vacated when Bendy teleported up and then met a surprised Cpt. Nemoy about a week back. “It is not logical that you sit there in Willard’s place,” you might recall him saying at the time while training several guns on his head.
The robot reports on Wallytown were blocked to Bendy. No possibility of getting the scoop on Tronesisia, then — for now. Just the info about the Alabama Bottle Mound and attached Nehi Indians, as well as histories of the ship’s crew such as Nemoy, Yourinsides, and Picard (both of ’em). The ship was called Cuthand (CU-than), after both a witch and a wizard who either were married or siblings; Bendy couldn’t conclusively conclude from the information at hand.
(to be continued)
any red-blooded man could succumb
“So this is supposed to be some kind of re-creation of the Nehi Indians’ Bottle Town,” grumbled Captain Spocari Nemoy, standing on the edge of the sim and staring across a shallow bay — perhaps another, larger borrow pit even — toward Wallytown’s main beach. “I doubt it, but I have to examine all angles before the Great Descent. Orange versus Purple.”
He checks his watch on his laser weaponed arm. “10:00am: better get over to Bar Lemon and talk to Natali or, ahem, Molly Lustrous again about all this,” he continued talking to himself. “I of course have to filter what she says through my radical logic, but the babe’s a total fount of information, lemony past and all. Plus I kind of like watching her dance; must appeal to my human side.” But he better watch that, else the green blood immunity might be negated.
“No dancing today?” queried the disappointed Spocari.
“Later on in the afternoon, yeah,” gruffed Natali, awkward in motion when out of character but silky smooth as Molly Lustrous, Queen of Dance. Queen of Lemony Past, she also became as that character. But Natali didn’t know so much. Natali only knew there were secret passages underneath Bar Lemon that needed to be explored today; needed to be shown to this deep, level voiced alien-man who was more attractive to Molly than herself. Molly felt he was in danger of tilting toward the wrong side (Orange?), thus gave control over to Natali this morning. “Just in here,” she beckoned at the web covered entrance of the sewer tunnel. “Follow me.”
“Errm, okay. Another dead Grey. So what?”
“No? Looks Grey to me.”
The large headed alien on the bed began to stir, sat up. He looked around nervously, then relaxed.
“Ahh, Natali. So I’m still not discovered, phew.” He wipes his substantial forehead of some developed perspiration. “Bring any of my special
beer brew down here from the bar by chance? Because I’m *out* of it.”
“You know that wasn’t really Lisa the Vegetarian Smipson you burned alive at the stake back there. Just someone else — yellow.”
“I know. Still felt good.”
“The things I do for mere burgers, pheh.”
“I’d like to hire you for a job Detective Strevor. I’m looking for my brother. Billy.”
What a peculiar thing, thinks Philip Strevor before answering. *I’m* looking for a Billy.
“I’ll take the case.”
“Got a job today, Marion. Looking for *Billy*.”
Marion Harding stared at the tv screen a bit. Then: “*Our* Billy?”
“Dunno.” Philip Strevor shifted his weight on the couch. “Go ahead and hit unpause. Just wanted to tell you that before we got into the whole atomic bomb thing.”
“Have to think about that one.”
“Yep. Sure will. Find out soon enough, I suppose. If I can find him.”
“Her,” Marion Harding corrected. He picked up the remote.
The explosion continued.
“This is the human who is looking for me, Spocari. Yet he has changed now. Drastically. We have *both* changed.”
“And you say this is your *brother*? How does *that* work?”
“He *was* my brother. As I said, we have both changed — drastically. This place, this town, has changed us both. Made us into monsters. In lemony times we use to rule together at the top of the mound. That’s where I became addicted to my special brew, the stuff that saves me down here. As one of the top dogs, or at least sidekick to the head honcho, I was afforded my own drink. My brother backed me up, didn’t leave my side even though I embarrassed him again and again. I even *pissed* my special brew in public, Spocari. Mr. Yellow they called me after that incident. At least down here.”
Dr. Spocari Nemoy spoke into his head microphone which also acted as a recorder currently. “Are you getting all this up there, Picard?” A confession he was receiving, in essence.
“Sure. But who’s the brother?” spoke Chief Communication Officer Picard in his ear. “Get the brother’s name. We think it’s Jimmy but just want to check.”
“He’ll come after me,” continued Billy. “He’s changed,” he reinforced. “Nothing like he was. This place, this town changes you.” He then looks Spocari over real good, wondering what *he* was before.
“Ground Zero, my friend,” spoke Philip over the music. “Ground Zero.”
Staring at the Jack Daniels whiskey bottle in front of him, Marion nodded.
“Over the Rainbow” and “On the Run” combined.
That last track was simply beautiful, Tronesisia. It’s as if Judy Garland came back from the dead and took the mic again.”
“Thank you. My friends call me Sissy. Please. Call me Sissy.” She winked her robotic blue eye seductively at Philip Strevor. Then she did the same to Marion Harding seated beside him, except with the other eye. Two blue eyes.
“And your Pink Floyd rendition, Rocky. What can I say but wowzers. Wowzers! You both are so great.”
“We appreciate it,” chipped in bass voiced Rocky Rocco, who hasn’t been seen since way back in Collagesity novel 6. “I had an excellent teacher for that one.”
Tronesisa nodded in agreement. “Excellent indeed.”
Rocky leans over and pats Tronesisia’s silver knee. “And you too, dear.”
Tronesisia suddenly gets a sad, faraway look in her eyes. “It is so, it is so.”
“Sooo… let’s get down to business.” Unglueing his gaze from the bottle still in front of him, Marion Harding opens the briefcase full of money.
“L$50,000,” said Philip without looking. “It’s all we have right now.”
“That will do,” returned Tronesisia.
“Yeah, that’ll do,” agreed Rocky quickly. Tronesisia and Rocky steal a winning glance at each other.
“He’s in here.”
“God I hate spiders, Marion. You go first.”
“Yes, thank you Penn Mann. But we kind of already *knew* where the mound was on this sim map.” Waste of thin space he sometimes is, she thought to herself, but only huffed outwardly.
Embarrassed, Penn Mann moved away from the map and propped himself back up against the wall beside Dr. I.C. Yourinsides. After considering the next step, he thought into their heads again. “Give me your idea of how Tronesisia — Sissy — and this Rocky being I hadn’t met until yesterday’s rehearsals — fine fellow, though — tell me how they knew about Billy’s secret hideout. Any clues?”
“We don’t *need* clues, Penn Mann. Mr. Director.” Dr. I.C. blew out air again. “It *happened*. Tronesisia and Rocky noticed that there were 3 extra prims on the property the other day. They’re very meticulous about counting, since they leave full building permissions on that property for the various entertainers passing through. They used remote viewing to pretty quickly find the cube, the most solid and rounded of the 3, just under the floor of the nightclub. This led (them) to the other two objects linked to the cube — the copy of ‘I, Robot’ by another Carter person apparently [sic], and then the Jimmy Carter cutout that represents Billy’s *real* brother, or what he takes to be his real brother anyway. It’s all brainwashery, though: the alien disguise, everything. He’s really human through and through in this production. But he’s not really a he.”
Penn Mann considered this as well. “What about the public urination, then, the pissing with the [delete name]? And Mr. Yellow. Or Yellows, 2 of ’em. He drank the special brew, but is then discovered pissing it back out at that public landing spot for Wallytown, all out in the open and all. But it takes two Mr. Yellows, combined, to accomplish this. What does that mean?”
Dr. I.C. threw up her hands, then figuratively punted. “You take it Spocari Nemoy.”
“Captain,” admonished Nemoy. “Use the title when speaking to me in this war room. I outrank you.”
Dr. I.C. blew him a raspberry with this. “Go ahead then, *Captain*. Give our Director Mann a dose of some more truth. He wants fiction, we give him reality back.” She turned to Penn Mann again. “All this *happened* to us — get that through your thin, ink filled head.” She looked him over. “Which side is your head anyways?”
“Biker Chick,” went Penn Mann on a tangent again in their heads. He had this in common with his Urbane Blue director doppleganger: Eraserhead Man. Without eyes, without mouth, he turned his attention to the black and pink clad woman sitting beside Nemoy, who was markedly leaning in the opposite direction from her, obviously uncomfortable with her presence here. “We seem to need a fresh perspective on this,” Penn Mann thought. “Give us what you think.”
Dr. I.C. Yourinsides spoke up again. “Biker Chick doesn’t know anything; she has just arrived.”
“Nevertheless,” insisted Penn Mann inside their heads. “I am *still* the director of the production, despite what you may think, Good Doctor.”
“Oh Lord,” she exasperated. “Go ahead, then, Biker-Chick-still-not-even-with-a-name-yet. Tell us what you got.”
“Heidi,” she piped up in a thin voice after a pause. “My name is Heidi.” But Nemoy and Yourinsides both realized it was actually Penn Mann speaking *through* this person. She looks down at her hands, wiggles them around. She reaches up and touches her face, her eyes, her mouth.
And then she touches something else. “How do you like *these* apples?”
Spocari Nemoy started to feel red-blooded again. This is what he didn’t like about biker chicks, among many other things. But this above all else. What would Marlon Brando do? he thinks for not the first nor last time.
He makes a mental note to schedule another regeneration session with Lt. Gunnhead asap.
“New Island, Rocky; Mid Hazel’s place to the right. If you cross that bridge, go down that road, you may never come back.”
“I hear ya, sister. Let’s go back to the night club. *Our* night club now. No renting any more. Don’t dwell on all this bad stuff. Turn your back on it. Literally… turn around.”
So Tronesisia takes Rocky’s advice and pivots away from the bridge to face full on the island that is truly home now. Her new New Island. Or at least Fisher’s.
She has become mobile again and will not return.
“I’m telling you Baker Bloch. It’s a battle between black and white. Lodges. I *need* a gun.” Heidi pointed her loaded weapon at Baker’s brimmed hat, oh so tempted to shoot it off just to reinforce her message. Instead: “Change over into the other director. I want to speak with my doppleganger on this.”
“You’ve changed, Penn Mann, er, Heidi. You know you have.” His voice was strong and nasal.
“I’ll admit it. I’m still here to bargain.”
“I’ve seen this version of you before. You’re a magician… *musician*. That’s it. I’ve heard about you. You use to hang out with that scallywag…”
“Okay, getting down to the brass tacks it is. I want the inn for starters. Horne. I’m going to bring back the Ice Cream Boys.”
Heidi/Musician turned around in his seat and looked at the large structure representing the inn, then turned back to Eraserhead Man. “Done.”
“And the blue coffee shop behind me. The one with the golden hands that serves such excellent espresso. I need coffee to make my brain function well for the shoots. *Tangents* we must go on… explore. Plus,” — and here Eraserhead Man turned in turn, then turned back — “it’s a portal.”
Heidi/Musician looked straight ahead at the blue structure framing Eraserhead Man’s eraser topped head at the time. “I think that’s a given. Anything else?”
“The orangerie,” Eraserhead spoke plainly and without hesitation. He knew this could be the sticking point, but had already made up his mind about the terms. This was make or break.”
Heidi/Musician expelled some air. “I have my people pushing me in a different direction, Pencil. Expand beyond Wallytown and the spaceship, they’re saying in my ear. Give Heidi a larger role… expose her to the limelight more. Feature Dr. Ice Cream more.”
“That’s what *I’m* trying to do. Feature Ice Cream more. Icy, delicious ice cream, mmmmm.” Eraserhead Man rubs his lead painted belly here for emphasis. He licks his wooden lips. He keeps licking his lips, staring at the doppleganger director opposite him. Slower and slower…
“Alright, okay, just stop doing that. I’ll give you your Ice Cream Boys. I’ll give you the Orangerie.” Heidi/Musician held steady the weapon he had pointed at his doppleganger beneath the table. “But I still keep the orange. *The* orange.” His finger was poised on the trigger. “I need both the apples and the orange.”
“Deal,” Eraserhead Man quickly agreed, then spit in his hand and extended it across the table. The gun was lowered. Both got all that they expected and desired today.
Dive In Theater
Franklin “Frank” Bowers sits and stares at the river while contemplating his sorry state of affairs.
Across the river, Herbert “The Brow” Dune plans out dollhouses for the rich and privileged. He’s a professional doll peddler. We’ll see where that goes…
Patsy Peggy Jennifer remains lukewarm about being on her own. She’s been separated from Frank for 2 years now, but still lives next door. Why is this so?
Cookie, a big blue yip yip, commands a small steampunk airship currently moored at the Treestone Tower House towering above them.
Blue haired Doris “Diver” Drane goes snorkeling in the river at the center of it all.
Mornings here are the best, Doris. Funny how your name is Doris too. And almost the same last name as well. Drone instead of Drane, though. Thank God. Else it’d be spooky!”
“Spooky enough,” claims the red haired, anime style Doris sitting opposite her. “But call me Gwin. That was my given name over at the Ruby Democratic Empire set.”
“So glad you got disengaged from that Tin Tin. He sounds terrible. Eating with his mouth open and all. And that nose!”
“Awful indeed,” reinforced
Doris Gwin. But now I’m here. With you. I decided I like women more than men. Reality goes where desire leads it.” They touched hands across the table, with no spitting involved this time.
“Haven’t you guys finished that chess game yet?” clanks Sally the Sparkonaut after washing the breakfast pots and pans inside their cozy riverside cottage. “Why don’t you take a break and play checkers upstairs instead?” She winks at her niece Gwin with a bulbous blue eye. “If you know what I mean. Check her… checkhers. Get it?”
“Creepy, Aunt Sally. Why are you so… open and free about our burgeoning lesbian relationship? I mean, I thought you were a rampaging whore over at Wallytown before your mechanical transmutation.”
“Indeed I liked men in more ways than I can count. And I am a powerful caculating machine. But love is love to me. Be free and open with it. Last reincarnational existence I was a nun in 19th Century France and hated every minute of the experience. Lesbian relationships at the nunnery were common, and even encouraged if you were sly about it. The monks turned their back on us — they were having their own fun with their own fair sex. That’s how things went but it wasn’t open to the outside. To them we were married to God and God alone. But God works in mysterious ways, as they say. And in my opinion God loves men and women to have sex. Any type of sex: concave on concave, convex on convex, concave/convex… you name it. And domination… there’s a percentage of people that like it… be open to that too. But in the right way.”
“You are wise, Aunt Sally. The people that built the dam over there on the river we can see from our breakfast table also did a super job on your transmutation.”
“It was too rampant,” repeated Sally. “Something had to be done about desire for certain.” Her antennas sparked again. “I suppose.”
“Gwin, maybe we can get some ideas of where to go from here through this public domain movie. What do you think so far?”
“I identify with the heroine, this Carolyn woman. Her relationship with Martin reminds me of my time with Tin Tin. All the irritating habits the Alexis psychic dude from the beach somehow knows about him, but still advises her to settle down with him and get married. What was the quote?”
Doris gave this: “‘Even a free spirit eventually has to come inside, put on her shoes, and start going to dinner parties.'” Embarrassed about her eidetic memory again, she then added: “I think.” But Doris knew it was the correct quote. It always was.
“That’s not me, though,” offered Gwin. “Now — I’ve got you babe.” She starts singing the appropriate Sonny and Cher song while getting up and improvising a dance, beckoning Doris Drane to join her. Why not, she thought.
Benny Horne continues to watch the pair from behind a nearby truck.
for an orange
“We should get back to the hotel, Benny. I need some ice cream. I checked. That truck behind me back there at the drive-in theater…”
“*Dive*-in theater,” Jer’s brother corrected.
“Yeah. Like I said. Dive-in theater — anyways, the truck is completely empty. And the fridge in our apartment here is empty. And the fridge over at Audrey’s next door. And the…”
“Yes, yes, I know,” spoke Jer’s brother. “We have no ice cream. We have no bananas. Those girls *took* it all.”
“I’m not sure I get all the fruit references, EM. Apples, oranges, bananas.”
“Orange,” amended Eraserhead Man, sitting in the opposite golden hand from the actor playing Jer Horne (Ted Sprinkles). “Important to leave out a letter.”
“Right. Like I said.”
“My time in the hot seat, um, hand, eh?” He adjusted his weight in the awkward sitting spot. “Kind of hard don’t you think?”
“Listen, Jed — ‘Benny’. You and Jer are the Ice Cream brothers through and through. You’re not just a nice guy, for example. You’re a *sweet* guy. And your brother has an *icy* stare. And your hotel has pillows as soft as whipped cream. And so on.”
“Great. That’s great — I get it. Back to the fruit.”
“We’re going to have to let someone show a little skin, Jill. Nothing higher than the navel, nothing lower. Just the midriff.”
“Check my contract, EM. *No* nudity.”
“It’s not nudity,” implored the lauded director. “It’s just… never mind. Send in Cloe. I know she’ll do it. For a price.”
“50,000 lindens. Take it or leave it.”
“Thank you Yip Yip! We’ll be speaking later on these matters!”
“You’re welcome!” gruffed the large, blue creature while shuffling his way out of the same colored coffee shop.
“So… that leaves just you and me, Sandy. ” Eraserhead Man counts the characters off on his yellow hand. “Jer Horne, Benny Horne, Gwin, Doris Drane, Blue Yip Yip… oh, the *rabbits* (!). He shakes his eraser topped head, breathes out heavily. “Oh well, I’ll talk to them individually later. Frank Bowers and Jenny have some large issues going down, Sandy. And Commander Yip Yip — Cookie — is right smack in the middle of it all.”
Suavely dressed Sandy Beech just stared at his director, letting him unwind his ideas as he’s wont to do. He’s *trying* to be patient. It *is* an important role in his career, perhaps a defining one. He decides to simply nod instead of speak at EM’s implied prompt for a response. Auteurs needs affirmation. Over and over. He’ll give him this right now and nothing more. After nodding, he settles back in his golden seat.
EM leans forward at the same time, reaches over and pats Sandy’s nearest foot to further get his attention. “But *you*. I wanted to keep this just to ourselves, Sandy, so that’s why we’re here. Inside. “I consider *your* role in this production the most important. Sure, sure, Cloe’s has elevated as well, and she’s certainly the principle female protagonist what with this new payoff I’m giving her. Which means she’s the love interest you’ve been wondering about, Sandy. Cloe’s the one.”
Sandy sits back up, interested now. “You mean All Blue?”
“No Sandy, I want to stop you right there. That’s a mythological term borrowed from your source character. Hmm…” EM repeatedly snaps his stubby yellow fingers, trying to get the name. “Sanji,” he comes up with. “Yeah. But your character is different. Just like Frank *borrows* from both Frank of ‘Donnie Darko’ — love that film, by the way — and also Frank Bowers of the ‘Life is Strange’ production. Another great work, especially using certain edits. That series gave me the idea for multiple plot lines diverging off from each other.” EM here raises his hands in front of him and spreads his fingers out.
“What, then?” Sandy Beech was both excited and irritated at once.
“Get this, Sandy. Not All Blue. All *Orange*. It’s something you saw as a child. Now pay attention here. It wasn’t your mother — that would be too inappropriate — not your aunt, *maybe* a cousin or maybe just someone who lives on your street. But you saw a person, a *woman*, turn into a doll while a kid. And then you saw the container where they put her after the transmutation — like we had Sally transmuted from an ordinary woman in the shoot several days back.
“I remember,” offered Sandy, trying to resist the impulse to tap his fingers impatiently against the arm of his golden chair. He stared as graciously as possible once more.
“But the container,” continued EM, “had only one opening, a round one. And through that opening you saw a navel, a belly button, framed as perfectly as possible within it. Like an orange with a navel. And that started your life long search for All Orange, the whole shebang. And along with that, the obsession with cooking with oranges — souffles, cakes, pies, you name it. And, of course, the, er, doll peddling.” He paused — another response was needed, Sandy sensed.
“And this — doll — is Cloe. Doris Drane I mean.”
“Right you are. And I’m $50,000 lindens poorer because of it. We just have to think of the setting, the lighting and so on. But that’s the pivotal vision I had. A navel in a round opening. An orange.”
I wonder what Cloe thinks about all this, Sandy then ponders. I’ll have to ask her the first chance I get. Maybe an, ahem, accidental rendezvous is needed tonight, hehe.
“Ah yes, I see them now. Fish. Hence Fish Dam.”
“Salmon, to be more specific. Heading 15 meters up to Fish Lake — also known as Lake Three — to reproduce at or near the very place they themselves were spawned. Says here this is due to olfactory memory. I think that means they can smell their way back to their original home.”
Doris Drane looked down at Gwin. “You shouldn’t have stolen that book about the island from that library.”
“The About Land description read: Feel free to roam about the grounds and explore,” countered her red haired companion sprawled out on the green ground beside her. “Didn’t say anything about not taking anything or leaving everything as is. It just said to go wherever you want, do what you want. I could have exposed my midriff to the world if I’d chosen. But I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Your choice.” The actresses playing Doris Drane and Gwin were improvising beyond the shooting script now. Behind the cameras, Eraserhead Man couldn’t help but smile.
“We have to take it back,” implored Doris Drane, back on script. “We have to go back to the library.”
“Good,” states the defiant Gwin. Maybe I’ll steal a couple *more* books while we’re there. There’s a big blue one about this place called Wallytown I’d like to have in my possession. Maybe I’ll take that one. That might be enough.”
“Just stop it, Gwin. And stop bending back the spine on that red one. It could be rare — we may have to pay!”
“50,000 lindens do you think?” EM smiles again. Keep going you Jill MacGill, he thinks. Just keep on keeping on.
“What does it say in your little red book about me? About us?”
“Let’s see,” improvised Jill MacGill through Gwin again. “‘The Story of Doris and Gwin’. Sorry: ‘Gwin and Doris.’ Says here we’ll be married in 2 years. Will stay with Aunt Sally until the crops are harvested. Then we’ll be free to live out our days wherever we choose. But, again, says here: Wallytown. That’s why I need the book. To learn all about our future home.”
“All right, all right,” cedes Doris Drane across from her. “We’ll go back to the library and get the other book. The big blue one.”
Gwin rushes over and kisses Doris full on the lips, then sits beside her, holding her hand. Yeah, this is some *real* acting, both actresses think (hint: they despise each other).
“Smells weird in here. Old book smell, I suppose.”
“Shhh. I’m trying to read.”
“I thought you were just going to steal that book. Not read the entire thing while we’re here.”
“I’m reading up on the part about the wall. The Green Monster. So… shhh.”
Doris Drane kept quiet for a bit, then started again.
“Never heard of a tree eating wall,” Doris rehashed some of what Gwin was saying before. “Glin or Glinda, Gliph or Glyph — with an i and a y. Why do these cypress trees always come as, um, twinned pairs of the opposite sex that don’t, er, don’t know anything about the other half?”
“It’s only one tree,” corrected Gwin. “It can appear at different times in different places and think it is the same. Like I could sit over here and talk, and then we could switch chairs and I could talk over there. But to the tree, it’s as if the switch never happened. They’re always where they are.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Doris noisily scooted back her uncomfortable wooden chair and stood up. “I’ll be freely roaming the grounds if you need me. I’ll check back in about, say, 30 minutes?”
Gwin is absorbed in what she’s currently reading (trees have 2 souls!) and doesn’t respond. But then improvises: “Watch your navel!”
God I hate that woman, Cloe Price thinks. And EM is letting her get away with all this!
I wonder who’s actually sacrificed here? Doris ponders, laying in the center of an elevated stone circle. Trees? Fish? Fish people? Her mind is running wild.
Huh (mysterious floating pylon).
“Hello. Anyone home?” But Doris needn’t had worried because no one lives here.
After waiting the appropriate time, she goes inside and sits at the dining room table. I hope those are candy bunnies on that platter over there, she thinks.
Hmm. 2960. Probably another empty building. I’m not even going to knock this time. Feeling free to roam indeed.
Lemons and lime; that reminds me of something.
This is a little different.
Don’t mind if I do.
What’s this? My foot must have accidentally activated the screen. Doris studied the graphic.
“Gunn Mobile Trailer Park,” she spoke aloud, then saw the byline at the bottom. “Your Darkness.” She settled back in the executive chair. “A game. I love computer games.” So she just decides to start a two person round with herself.